


|~~fan fic~~;

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Gen, Humor, Torture, Whump, forced to kneel/bow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 07:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23467378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Bright gets snatched by coveralls and gets subjected to the fan at an airplane testing facility.For Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt Forced to Kneel/Bow.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 53
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	|~~fan fic~~;

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SomeRainMustFall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeRainMustFall/gifts), [Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/gifts).



> this started as a statement, that turned into a joke, that turned into a joke reality show, that turned into an unrelated flash fic, that turned into this - for all my friends over at the whump server <3 bthb prompt was requested by anonymous

“When will you shut your flappy-ass mouth?” coveralls told him. Navy blue, ratty, weathered collar, no name plate embroidered on the left. A flip down visor distorting his face, fogging each time he talked.

“When you tell me why I’m here,” Malcolm responded, glaring at him in the control booth. He tested his arms again, firmly tied behind him around some sort of pole. His ankles, knees, waist, and shoulders were anchored onto a backboard with automatic closing cuffs. What was this place? Recording studio? Storage? Too industrial. Why the military-grade restraint?

“Product testing.” Coveralls focused on the panel in front of him. “See if your cocky ass can withstand jack shit.”

“You don’t want to — “

“ _See?_ You’re doing it _again_. You can’t try to control the fuckin’ world without blowback,” coveralls said firmly, clenching his fists. Anger issue of some kind. A hair trigger perhaps? What event had caused him to snap?

Coveralls flipped a switch and a red light went on, blasting deafening wind into Malcolm’s body. Malcolm’s cheeks sunk into his face, flapping back and forth, his ears thundering. He didn’t recognize any sounds but roaring, and he had to concentrate _really_ hard to keep his eyes and mouth closed. It was like his cheeks were turning into Dumbo’s ears, and if he held his head at the right angle, he might just fly away into the wall. He was sure his skin was being torn off to reveal the man behind the mask. Was this what skydiving felt like? Did skydiving uncover the true person inside you? Would his look feral or benign?

As fast as the roar started, it stopped, and Malcolm’s shoulders heaved to catch his breath. What was coveralls doing? How could he get out of this? The automatic cuffs were strong, unmoving to his struggle. Huge fan blades leered at him, taunting that they would fly loose and get him. “Jet engine,” coveralls informed. “400 miles per hour at some distance behind it. Your big brain can do the calculation.”

Malcolm gasped out, “You don’t need to — “

The motors hummed again and his cheeks thrashed like he was ready for takeoff. He felt like a test dummy on _Mythbusters_ whose limbs would rip away in a fall. Did they get hazard pay? Was that what this was about for coveralls? Some sort of job dispute?

The motor cut.

“F5!” coveralls hollered, “300 miles per hour.”

The speeds were reducing? They felt the same. Why?

Before he had time to adequately consider, the motor buzzed on again.

His hair whipped back like trees in a hurricane. Sometimes those trees snapped. Would he snap? What would snapping feel like? Would it be physically in half? Would Gil need to pick up all the pieces and put him into a Malcolm-sized box? Would the box be smaller because he was broken down? Fuck, fuck, fuck he was destined for a half-sized casket, a box no bigger than his kitchen sink. No more boxes. _Fuck_.

Soon enough, the fan stopped again.

“Super Cat 5. Not the Internet kind,” coveralls announced.

What in the actual _fuck_? How many times was this going to go on? “What do you want?”

“Keep talking, dipshit,” he growled, flipping the switch again. 

The fan kept clicking on and off in constant whiplash to lesser forms of tornados, hurricanes, straight-line winds, strong gusts — the litany of weather phenomena went on and on. The automatic cuffs came off as the intensity died down, but with his arms still tied around the pole, no matter how much he struggled, he couldn’t get out. He kicked his feet back into the board between assaults, frustrated he couldn’t think of a way to stop it. The wind turned to industrial box fan, ceiling fan, and —

Malcolm’s knees gave out on a calm breeze and he dropped to the floor, his arms still harnessed around the pole.

“ _There!_ “ a victorious shout came from the booth. “You _powderpuff_.”

Malcolm struggled to clear his head, his eyes dry and tearing down his face. “What?”

“You dropped at puff of air. You stood through jet engine, every natural and man made wind in between, but lost to _puff. of. air,_ “ he cackled, steaming the whole inside of his visor.

“What’s the point?” Malcolm eked out. Had he been trying to break him? This whole time?

“You gonna shut up now?” Coveralls stood with his hands on his hips.

Malcolm considered the statement. Coveralls took pleasure in shooting wave after wave of gusts at him. Enjoyed the control. Never got his hands dirty. Never really _hurt_ him per se. He wasn’t hurt, right? He flexed his fingers. Yep, still fine.

“You’re on your fucking _knees_ , and you can’t admit defeat?” coveralls said, flabbergasted.

Coveralls flipped the switch back on, the puff of air taunting Malcolm’s face. It barely shifted the strands that had fallen into Malcolm’s eyes.

Coveralls took off his visor, his face in plain view for the first time for Malcolm to analyze. “Airplane testing facility,” Malcolm reached for a connection. “2011? 2012? Told you I’d be back to arrest you. 200 kilos of cocaine?” Maybe if Malcolm could keep him talking, he’d be able to avoid whatever coveralls had planned next. But there wasn’t a plan. Malcolm had been grabbed in a rage when coveralls had spotted him — what was going to happen? What was coming?

“Yet here we are. You’re still full of hot air, you cocky, little, _shit_ ,” coveralls ground out, staring him down through the glass.

“ _Put your hands up!_ “ bellowed from the control room. Malcolm struggled to keep his head up to watch the action.

“What are you, his number one fan?” coveralls sneered, his hands pulled behind him.

The door to the wind tunnel opened, Gil stepping in and striding to him. His fingers worked at removing the twine from Malcolm’s hands, trying to release him from the pole. “Bus is on its way.”

“I don’t think I need it,” Malcolm breathed and pulled his legs out from under him, leaning back into the pole.

“You’re sure as hell going to get checked out,” Gil demanded, his voice coming from over Malcolm’s shoulder.

“Not a fan.” One hand came loose and Malcolm waved it off to the side, testing its function.

No longer attached to a solid object, Malcolm tipped over toward the ground. Gil grabbed his shoulder to stop the descent. “Bright?”

“I’m a little tired,” his voice sounded floaty in his ears.

“What did he do to you?”

“It was a blast,” Malcolm giggled, trying to brush it off.

“ _Bright_ ,” Gil sounded like his patience was running out at the very far end of what he could hear.

“Would you believe he thought I was arrogant? Wanted to knock me down a peg?”

“You?” JT smiled, crouching beside him. “ _Never_.”

“Jus — Tin,” Malcolm guessed.

“Casey Blows?” JT teased.

“Good one,” Malcolm approved, smiling. “Guess what, JT?”

“What’s up?”

“I withstood a jet engine.” Malcolm looked at him wide-eyed, a pleased grin on his face.

“ _Shit_.”

Malcolm interpreted JT’s reaction as _cool_.

JT meant _fuck_ , one more thing for the guy to boast about.

Gil thought _dammit_ kid, you need a new hobby.

The paramedics didn’t care about any of the above or Malcolm’s whining that he was fine. They wheeled him off to the ambulance to get checked out at the hospital without fanfare.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
